Teachers

I know one man who thinks that I rush to conclusions. I don't jump, jumping is for people on trampolines. Not really my style. Oh I think trampolines are so cool, especially the metaphorical ones. But they're still not for me. For a lot of reasons which I shall not divulge. Anyway, according to this man, I cut out the jumping and simply rush. I'm not so sure he's completely right, but I have to be objective (which I hate) and take his opinion. All my rushing is perhaps intrinsic, although a big part of it has definitely grown on me. And I come here with yet another conclusion. Teachers, oh dear they are a difficult part of the population. Listening is not one of their assets, not because they don't have ears. They have and most are prettified by dangling (passe`) earrings. But they will not listen, because they carry out their profession to a Tee in all other areas of life. When I was 18, I remember my driving instructor asking me what I did in life. His sigh of relief was comparable to the sigh of relief a convict on death row sighs when he's let off the electric chair at the very last minute. I was surprised, but what he said stuck in my mind, now a good 15+ years later. According to him, the worst clients were teachers because they would book themselves for driving lessons and not listen to a word the instructor said. Because they wanted to do all the talking, and the teaching. And I remember feeling so very sorry for myself seeing that I am the offspring of two teaching maniacs, teachers by profession, by birth and by everything else. It's hard having teacher parents, although my dad's not too bad seeing he never grew up himself. My mum is just like a teacher straight from Jane Eyre. Bad. And I chose the entertainment world, because I wanted to avoid becoming like my mum. And yet, as life would have it, now I am called Miss, a word which I hate, but which I have no option except to accept. True, it is never uttered in a bad way, but this Miss thing sometimes gets the better of me. The best teacher in my life never wanted me to call him as Sir. The best teacher of my life befriended me, taught me all he knew and more, and to him I will be forever grateful. Because the best teacher I had in life never bore a grudge, not even when I gracefully took his place and put his profession in danger. On the contrary, he was proud, proud that I was 'his' student. But most importantly, he was my best friend. Most people would have hated themselves, but not he. And I wish there were more like him. I wish I didn't have to listen to teachers in constant teaching mode without ever getting a word in sideways. Sometimes teachers are an exasperating species of Homo Sapiens. They think they know everything and that's where the trouble is. They believe that once a teacher, always a teacher. And that is an awfully scary thought. I choose to be a student, and always a student. Because I need no power trip. And sometimes being behind the big desk is a power trip for some. Perhaps the killer heels are some sort of power trip too. I have been blessed by knowing the best teacher ever. He didn't wear killer heels, nor did he bat his eyelashes. He wasn't dominant by any means and he never tut-tutted the way some teachers do. And I like to think I am a little bit like him, at least I would like to be like him, and I really try to be.

8 inches

It might be I am hitting the menopause very early, I might also be turning senile, but I can never understand killer heels in the early morning. Killer heels; when you have a demanding day job sometimes running after very little people. Flashy, disco-ball-like killer heels for daytime. Hello girls out there? Don't you know that the disco-ball died a very meaningful death in the 80's and that it is so so so passe` that you could actually get booked for a very sinful fashion crime? And may I ask how and why you decide to inflict that much pain on yourselves every day for six hours, only to be watched by little people? It's the shoe expert here talking. I own a room purposely for my 500+ pairs of shoes. And yes of course I own killer heels. I own killer, murderous, treacherous heels. The ones we try and immediately know they pinch but buy them anyway because they look so good. Killer heels were not made to feel good but to look good... in the evening. It would perhaps make a little sense if the people you met while at work were not little people but adults, and perhaps you would want to bag some hot sexy man (where the f&*% have they all gone?). Then, and only then, would I, the shoe expert, perhaps give the green light for killer heels, because since you want to go for the kill, then it makes sense. But with little people? They don't care if you've got 2 inch or 8 inch heels. And please do not come up with the excuse that you wear them to feel good about yourself. If that is really the case, then somewhere something's wrong. Does a girl really need the 8 inches to feel good about herself. 8 inches, which in another department would really make a girl feel very very good, is not on as in 8 inch heels at 8 in the morning, when you're trying to explain the 8x Math table while your back is hurting 8 times as much as it should. But I just watch. I like watching them trying to dangerously balance themselves in between a white board and a little table. I say nothing. I just observe. And I think it's silly. And I make my own conclusions up. Maybe I should have a heart for the poor souls, perhaps they are just in the 8 inches because they're trying to make up for the 8 inch-less in the other department.